


Clueless Asians, Hot Guys, and the All-Knowing Carol; The Story of Daryl and Glenn

by orphan_account



Category: Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, And everyone's gay, Bands, Carol is Glenn's BFF, Carol/Shane/Otis/Amy in a band, Community: twd_kinkmeme, Glenn is a NERD, High School, High School AU, It's actually pretty weird, Jesus - Freeform, M/M, Oh, Physical Abuse, Verbal Abuse, Well - Freeform, most everyone, what am I writing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-09
Updated: 2014-02-24
Packaged: 2017-12-10 22:37:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/790984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clueless Asians - - Daryl might be trying to woo Glenn, but, okay, Glenn's never been "wooed" before, so he isn't exactly sure what the hell is actually going on.</p>
<p>Hot Guys - - Daryl's all muscular arms and dripping sweat and Glenn might just die at the sight of him.</p>
<p>The All-Knowing Carol - - Glenn and Daryl - the clueless bastards - don't know what's going on, but Carol knows because, well, Carol always knows everything.</p>
<p>A high school AU because every fandom needs one. Written for a prompt on the Kinkmeme.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. School Parking Lots in the Middle of the Night

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to the wonderful world of Daryl/Glenn high school fic!  
> Jesus, I'm actually not at all sure what I'm writing here, but it's fun and hopefully it doesn't totally suck, though it might. Oh well...
> 
> This is written for a prompt on the Kinkmeme. It's pretty obvious what the prompt was: Can someone write a Daryl/Glenn high school fic. Blah blah blah.
> 
> Hope you like my story. If you do, feel free to browse my other works and whatnot. Don't be afraid to share the link. And, while you're at it, DON'T TALK TO STRANGERS.
> 
> The end of Author's note ONE.

When Carol shows up at Glenn’s house that Saturday, not only is she late, but she _so_ does not have her trumpet with her.  
  
She’s dressed in one of those high-waisted skirts, all frilly and sparkly, a Pokémon shirt, and black Hi Tops (Glenn thinks they might be his). Her hair’s all done up in a bun, and she has makeup and an honest-to-god smile on her face. It’s achingly clear that Carol did not, in fact, come over to practice her solo for Marching Band, and that Glenn has just been screwed right _the fuck_ over.  
  
“Okay,” Carol says, holding up her hands (nail freshly painted an electric blue), “I know exactly what you’re thinking. _Why-oh-why is your best friend Carol all fancied up?_ Well, my young Asian friend, I lied. I did not, in fact, come over to play you the James Bond theme song. We're going out.”  
  
Glenn groans, eyes rolling to the back of his head. “ _Carol._ I’m not _dressed_ to go out -”  
  
“You have other clothes, Glenn.”  
  
“But I’m not at a saving point in my game -”  
  
“You’re playing Grand Theft Auto. You can save whenever in Grand Theft Auto.”  
  
“No I’m not… No I can’t…”  
  
“I can see your TV from here, Glenn. You’re playing Grand Theft Auto. Just save and we can leave, okay?” Carol whines, her lips forming a pout as she crosses her arms. Pikachu is suddenly hidden by her bangle-encased arms. “ _Please_ , Glenn? I’ll even pick out your outfit so you don’t have to.”  
  
Glenn groans, letting his head fall back between his shoulders. Huffing out an exasperated breath, he nods, wordlessly letting Carol latch onto his wrist and drag him up the stairs all the way to his room.  
  
By the time Carol is finished with him, Glenn might look a little hot, and, okay, he doesn’t actually _mind_ Carol dragging him into her Durango and turning the radio up as high as it will go. She pulls out of the drive way, a little terrifyingly, and starts down the road to god-knows-where. Glenn leans back in his seat, rolling down the windows and letting the chilly, night air blow in his hair. It’s already dark and the streetlights are flickering as they pass. The radio hums in the background, louf but oddly soothing, and Glenn lets his mind wander.  
  
It’s always been like this, Glenn being dragged along by Carol, he thinks. Even since the two met in the first grade, with Carol all smothered in finger paint and confidence, with Glenn cowering behind the teacher’s legs, a brand new student, straight out of South Korea. Carol walked right up to him, looked the small, quivering boy over, and grinned, sticking out a paint-smudged hand. “I’m Carol,” she had said, all bright and sure of herself, “Carol Valentine. And you’re my new best friend, alright? Alright. Now, come on, I wanna show you my painting.”  
  
Ever since that day when Carol had shown him her painting  
  
(“What is it?” he asked, squinting up at the multicolored markings and splatters on the paper. He honestly didn’t know what it was. Maybe a bird? A beach? A corndog?  
  
“What does it look like, you dope?”  
  
“A… a pigeon? With a corndog… attacking a sandcastle?”  
  
“Good,” she said proudly, accidentally rubbing some paint on her nose as she scratches a cheek. “It’s _supposed_ to be abstract.”), he’d been following her around like a lost puppy. Always at her heels, always watching her every move, trying to figure out how Americans acted, how he was supposed to act. Carol had straightened him out sometime during the fourth grade in the sternest voice she’d ever used with him.  
  
(“There is no ‘ _supposed to act like_ ,’ got it? That’s _bullshit_ ,” she’d said. “You act how you wanna act. Not how you’re _s’posed to_.”) (Carol had developed a rather colorful vocabulary early on, triggering phrases such as “bullshit” and “Jesus-fuckin’-Christ, Glenn”).  
  
First, she’d dragged him to the third grade valentine dance, then her poetry reading in fifth. Her band practices (not the marching band - her small punk band that have met in the garage of their drummer’s house every Friday or Saturday since the seventh grade) and Spelling Bees. As soon as high school began, she started forcing him to attend every dance, party, and gig that had ever taken place.  
  
And now she’s taking him to god-knows-where in what is nearing the middle of the night. The best part, though, is no matter how often shit likes this happens - no matter how reluctant he is, it gets better every time. No exceptions.  
  
Like last time, for example. Carol’s band - Zombie Central; Third Floor - was in the local Battle of the Bands and she’d dragged him along to competition. They had placed second out of a hundred and four and one of the groupies had brought the best brownies (yes, the kind you’re thinking of) Glenn’s ever eaten. He got high-as-shit and a hand job in the back room out of it. All in all, Glenn’s pretty excited to see how much better this time will be.  
  
“Almost there!” Carol shouts over the music - some David Ghetta song - glancing over to Glenn with a sly smile. “Admit it. We aren’t even there yet, and you’re having fun.”  
  
“Oh, shut up,” Glenn mumbles, but she can’t hear it over Titanium. “Where is it? _What_ is it?” he says, louder this time.  
  
“Well, it’s at the school and it’s pretty epic. The whole band’ll be there,” Carol says, a devious little devil-smile on her lips. “And Rick - you know, the new kid? He’s there with Shane, and Beth said she’d bring Jimmy, too. And God only knows who Amy and Otis have found.”  
  
Glenn huffs out something that’s half a laugh, half a sigh as he runs a hand through his hair. Amy and Otis always manage to find the most… interesting characters to bring to parties. “Jesus - is this a dance? Carol, are you taking me to a school dance? Please say you aren’t. Please?”  
  
“If you must know, it is not a dance - it is an _assembly of epicness_ ,” Carol says, reaching forward to turn the radio down a few hundred notches. “You’ll see when you get there, okay? So just shut the hell up. And if you don’t, I’m cutting your tongue out and feeding it to my dogs.”  
  
“You don’t _have_ any dogs…” Glenn mutters, but doesn’t press any more. He knows that Carol actually will - without hesitance - go out, buy dogs, and feed them his tongue as their first meal.   
  
They finally make it to the school, Carol all but bouncing in her seat while Glenn is still pretty confused. There are six things Glenn notices right away when they pull into the parking lot.  
  
 **1)** The parking lot has a good twenty or thirty people and only about ten or twelve cars. Whatever is happening, is happening outside, and is not an organized school event. Which means they’re trespassing, and, if caught, will quite possibly be arrested for having beer in their possession. Which brings Glenn to the next point.  
  
 **2)** There’s beer. A lot of it. And Carol is a total drinking game-slut, which means he’s the DD and will have to throw his best friend into the SUV against her will. He’s done it before, and he’ll do it again. The only problem is Glenn himself having to stay sober (and, thus, the title of One Beer Glenn remains).  
  
 **3)** Glenn only knows a third of the people here - Beth, Shane, Jimmy, Andrea, Amy Otis, Rick, and Lori - and the rest are complete strangers. He thinks he’s seen a few of the bunch in passing, but otherwise, they’re all mysteries to him.  
  
 **4)** There’s a really, really hot guy standing beside Andrea. He has no sleeves and a bad ass pair of sunglasses. Glenn might actually explode from the hotness, if he’s honest.  
  
 **5)** Shane has Rick pressed against the door of his truck, kissing him breathless. No one else seems to be noting the pair.  
  
 **6)** Did he mention the really fucking hot guy? With Andrea? Yeah? Okay.  
  
Carol cuts the engine, Katy Perry’s vocals being stopped short (“California Gurls we’re undenniiiaaabbblll -”). Carol turns to give Glenn that infamous smirk of hers - it's fifty shades of devious, and twenty-three of mysterious. “You like?”  
  
“ _What the hell is this_?”  
  
“I already told you - an _assembly of epicness_ , or - if you so prefer - our town’s own little Island of Misfit Toys. Now, come on. People are excited to see me with my gay best friend.” She doesn’t wait for Glenn to answer, just hops out of the truck, all bouncy and happy to see her, uh… Island of Misfit Toys.  
  
A little reluctant, Glenn struggles with the door handle (the damn thing has always hated him; he either pops it too hard or not hard enough, and it always ends up hitting something in the face) before stumbling out of the truck. He zips up his hoodie a bit further (he’s not sure how that hot dude has not sleeves on. It’s fucking freezing) as he makes his way to Carol. She’s deep in some conversation about either an old book or a new movie (it’s hard to decipher what she’s actually describing) with Jimmy when he comes over.  
  
“ _Glenn_! You actually _came_! Holy _shit_!” Jimmy cheers, his words sounding slurred despite the fact that the night is still young. “I owe Shane _fifty bucks_!”  
  
“Hello to you, too, Jimmy,” Glenn says, only half-full of enthusiasm. Jimmy is the lead singer’s (Beth’s) boyfriend-since-the-seventh-grade, and he’s a nice guy. Once you get past his Knows-No-Boundaries personality and one-hundred-point-five percent honesty. “I see you’re shit-faced already.”  
  
“I’m not _shit-faced_ ,” he slurs, throwing his arms into the air for emphasis. Beer sloshes its way out of the cup tightly clenched in Jimmy’s right hand; he doesn’t even notice when it drips onto his shoulder and face. “ _Your mom_ is _shit-faced_.”  
  
“My point exactly,” Glenn mutters as he turns on his heel, in search of alcohol. He wanders aimlessly around the thirteen (there are exactly thirteen - he counted) laid-out tailgates, popped trunks, and open van doors, seeing a few familiar faces, but mostly just questionable unknowns. Amy - ZCTF’s number one groupie - grabs him by the elbow when he tries to squeeze past her.  
  
“Glenn! You made it!” She snorts, bringing her drink to her lips. “Jimmy owes Shane a fifty.” After all but guzzling what’s left in the plastic cup, she winks at him, flicking her eyes across their small conglomeration of vehicles. “And - just so you know - I brought a totally single, probably gay, and really fucking hot guy along with me. Just for you. Be thankful, dammit.”  
  
“Do I even know him?”  
  
“Not unless you hang out in the mechanics room everyday after and during school. He’s sort of a loner, anyway. He’s one of Andrea’s friends. See - he’s right over there by her,” Amy says, squinting as she points a finger across the lot to where her sister stands, hot sleeveless guy still in place. Glenn’s heart swoons and he suddenly has a new admiration for Amy that wasn’t there before. “Heard he was arrested once.”  
  
“You want me to date a felon? A _sleeveless_ felon? Are you kidding me, Amy?”  
  
“I know! It’s like a dream come true, isn’t it? Oh god, he’s so hot…” Amy is obviously not getting the point - not even a little - though, it’s more amusing than aggravating. “Bet he’d go for you, Glenn. Seems like he could have a _thing_ for Asians.”  
  
“He looks like he’d spear me if I came within twenty yards, Amy. How does Andrea even know him?” Glenn asks, eyes still scanning for the damned beer. “I mean, I get she has a lot of… _odd_ friends, but he… doesn’t exactly look like the Andrea’s Friend type.”  
  
“Didn’t she tell you? Andrea accidentally signed up for a mechanics class and didn’t realize until it was too late to change. He’s helping her not fail.” Amy goes on about him actually being real nerdy, only a closeted geek, and liking Lord of the Rings and Manga and shit, but Glenn’s just spotted the beer, and he intends to actually get a cup within the next century.  
  
“Oh, hey,” Glenn interjects. “I, um. I’m gonna go mingle.” He walks off, Amy pouting as she tries to stay in step with him.  
  
“You can’t just leave me! My date already abandoned me!”  
  
“You had a date?”  
  
“Does my sister count…”  
  
Rolling his eyes, Glenn merely trudges ahead, trying to make a grab for an empty Solo cup. “No. Your sister definitely does not count as a date, Amy.”  
  
He hears Amy sigh. “I’m still lonely. And that mechanics guy is so checking you out, and I’m not going to help if you abandon me, too.”  
  
“I don’t need your help.”  
  
“Yes. You do. You’re awkward as fuck and Carol’s gonna be drunk off her ass. You need me, Glenn. You fucking need me,” Amy says, arching an eyebrow. Sometimes, he really wants to strangle Amy, just because of her spitefulness.  
  
Glenn knows Amy’s right, but refuses to acknowledge it for once. Instead, he fills his cup almost all the way and takes a _long_ swallow. He’s going to need quite a lot of alcohol if the night is going to proceed like this.  
  
One Beer Glenn be damned.


	2. Grand Theft Auto is Probably a Video Game. Probably.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's short.  
> really fucking short.
> 
> so i'm gonna eat some cereal now. read if you'd like.

Daryl doesn’t exactly want to be here, but Andrea’s nice enough and doesn’t think he’s worthless like everyone else does, so he shows. It isn’t the worst experience in his life - he’s had a hell of a lot worse - but no one’s really talking to him other than Andrea and some girl with a Pokémon shirt, and it’s all pretty loud. They’ve got some half-decent music playing out of a shitty SUV and some people are attempting to dance in their half-assed circle of cars.

Daryl doesn’t know the song or the people, but he laughs with the rest of them because - yeah - they look like total morons and he just can’t resist the chuckles that bubble up from his chest.

“Hey, Daryl,” Andrea shouts from halfway across the lot. “Daryl!” She runs up to him, two cups of beer in hand. She’s breathless by the time she reaches him, shoving a cup in his hand as she pants erratically. “Don’t drink this. It belongs to a scrawny Asian boy who’s right on my tail, and I need to go hide before he catches up.” Andrea throws a glance over her shoulder before winking devilishly at Daryl. “Kid’s cute, if you were wondering - cute and available.” She wiggles her eyebrows mischievously.

There’s a cry of, “Andrea! You ass!” from somewhere among the throng of half-drunk teenagers, and, before Daryl can even register what the actual fuck has just happened, Andrea is long gone.

Sure enough, there’s a Scrawny Asian Boy in front of him within seconds, out of breath and pissed. Andrea was right, Daryl thinks. Scrawny Asian Boy is attractive as hell - what, with those fucking eyes and that fucking hair. Shit, he’s managing to pull off that fucking scowl. Daryl can’t stress how amazingly hot that is.

Scrawny Asian Boy glares up at him from where he’s all but keeled over on the pavement, his hands on his shaking knees. He studies Daryl for a moment before speaking. “Have you seen Andrea? She stole my drink and took off with it. Sort of wanna kill her now.”

Daryl shrugs, taking a drink from his beer - not the kid’s - before saying, “Yeah… She gave me your beer,” he holds the plastic cup out for him to take, “and then disappeared. So… here.”

Scrawny Asian Boy cusses under his breath - quite and probably in another language (Japanese? Korean, maybe?) - before he straightens up and accepts the outstretched cup. “Thanks,” he mutters, going to take a sip, but halting before it reaches his lips. “Wait; she didn’t poison it, did she?”

Daryl chuckles, shaking his head. “As far as I know, it’s clean.”

The kid nods, breathing a sigh before he fucking guzzles the cup, downing the beer in one drink. Daryl’s shocked he isn’t drowning by the time he resurfaces.

“Jesus Christ,” Scrawny Asian Kid mutters, running a hand through his hair as the other one crunches the red plastic of his Solo cup. “This is gonna be one long fucking night.” He tosses the useless and gnarled cup into a nearby trash can with a groan. He glances to Daryl, almost checking him out, with his front teeth gnawing his lower lip.

Daryl offhandedly notes just to what extremity the boy’s cuteness goes to. His eyes - Daryl can’t identify the color; not in this light, but - Jesus. The could make any number of grown men faint with their intensity and the way they shimmer under the star-dotted night sky. If Daryl could find another word for this, he’d use it, but dammit, they’re beautiful - he’s beautiful. His hair’s a little messy, but its ruggedness looks purposeful - it looks good. He’s slight, extremely so, and his hoodie looks a size too big. It’s baggy in all the right places and the words on it are faded and scratched. He’s cute and Daryl isn’t sure how he’s never seen the kid before.

“You ever been to one of these things before?” The boy’s words snap him out of his Scrawny Asian Boy-induced trance.

“Nah,” Daryl says tenuously, hoping his voice doesn’t shake as he goes for nonchalant.

On a scale from Heroin Addict to ten, his nonchalance is at a negative thirteen, he’s jittery as hell.

The kid sighs, leaning on the back of the van beside Daryl. His eyes keep flitting from Daryl to Andrea’s sister - Jamie? Amy? - who stands across the parking lot, flashing Scrawny Asian Boy thumbs up and winking. He scoffs, his lips reluctantly turning up at the corners, before turning to Daryl.

“So, uh… I’m Glenn, by the way. Glenn Rhee… I’m friends with Carol - the freak in the Pokémon shirt.”

Glenn, Daryl’s mind repeats, almost in awe. Glenn Rhee, who’s friends with Weird-Pokémon-Girl Carol. He’ll have to remember that.

After a too-long stretch of silence, Daryl gets the memo. “I’m Daryl Dixon, by the way… Sort-of-friends with Andrea. I’m helping her in mechanics class.” Daryl is too awkward for his own good. And it sucks.

“Dixon,” Glenn rolls the word around in his mouth. “Dixon… Where have I heard that before?”

Daryl knows what comes next - is more used to it than when it first started, but no less ashamed.

“Wait; you’re Merle’s brother, aren’t you? Merle Dixon?” Glenn’s words are full of disbelief, not disgust or revolt, which is a little different than he’s used to. “Christ. What, he’s in jail now, isn’t he? Shit.”

Daryl nods solemnly. “Yeah. ‘tempted murder or something like that… Ain’t real sure.”

“Shit. I’m sorry, man. Really.” And he looks like he actually means it. “Fuck, that… that sucks…” Glenn runs a hand through his hair, worrying his bottom lip. “I’m sorry. Jesus… I’m really sorry.”

“S’okay… grew up with him in a holding cell, doesn’t make a difference if he’s in the real thing now.”

“I went to jail once,” Glenn says, bordering whimsical.

Daryl snorts embarrassingly loud, his hand moving to cover his mouth. “You,” he says around a mouthful of laughs, “went to jail? Of all people, you?”

Glenn’s grinning. “The hell’s that supposed to mean? Pathetically nerdy Asian kids can’t go to jail?” Glenn considers Daryl for a moment. “Okay, so maybe it was just the Sheriff’s Office, and maybe it was just for jumping in a fountain when I was fourteen, but I rode in a police car and was in a holding cell for forty-five minutes.”

Daryl nearly snorts out his beer at the pure stupidity of the statement. “For forty-five minutes? Whoa - you must be some kinda bad ass, then, right?” Glenn elbows him in the ribs, chuckling sadly.

“Fine then - you ever been to prison?” It was supposed to be a joke; a light, half-hearted joke to make Daryl laugh, but, instead, he goes stiff. Glenn begins to falter. “Oh, um… I mean you don’t have to answer that if you don’t want to… I mean -”

“S’fine,” Daryl mutters, rubbing the back of his neck a little awkwardly. “I haven’t been to jail. I mean - I’ve been to court a few times, in holding cells for weeks. Ain’t nothing serious. Minor shit.”

“What was it for?”

“Theft - usually petty. Car parts, sometimes.” He doesn’t tell him he does it to make ends meet; lets him assume that on his own.

Glenn is silent for a moment. “So, uh. You’re, like, a mechanic, right? That’s cool. I could never do that; my hands aren’t steady enough.”

Daryl’s grateful for the subject change. “Yeah. After school, I’m gonna pick up a job at the shop downtown… You know anythin’ ‘bout cars?”

“Other than what I learned on Grand Theft Auto? Not a clue about the damned things.”

Daryl snorts, only half-sure that Grand Theft Auto is a video game. All he knows is that Glenn is cute and real and hasn’t left him yet. That’s good enough for him.

For now, at least.

For now.


	3. I'm a Little Teapot, Short and Stout..;

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is a weird chapter.  
> Oh well.  
> I'll see if I can get another one up tonight/tomorrow, but no promises (I mean, I have it written and shit, but, really, I'm too lazy to type it, really).  
> SO ENJOY AND WHATNOT.

_Holy shit._  
  
Glenn has made it through the night mostly-sober and smiling like a stoner all thanks to the amazing Daryl Dixon, who's actually more amazing than anyone really gives him credit for. And, okay, Glenn might or might not have a total middle school-grade crush on him. _So what?_  
  
But, really. _Holy shit._  
  
How hadn't he seen the man before?  
  
 _Seriously._  
  
Carol is sober enough to drive home when it comes to three o’clock in the morning, but Shane is spectacularly drunk off his ass and Rick doesn’t have his license to drive them home. Carol offers them a ride in that chipper voice of hers. Rick accepts gratefully, letting Carol help him load a wobbly Shane into the Durango. The entire idea was doomed from the start, and offering Rick that ride was probably Carol’s first mistake.  
  
“I’m a little teapot -”  
  
“So, Rick,” Carol hollers over Shane’s alcohol-induced singing. The poor man really is tone deaf and he probably couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket. His ‘singing,’ sounds more like the distorted warbling of a dying Walkman. “Are you and Lori a thing now? She was making doe-eyes at you all night. And you weren’t exactly telling her to get lost…”  
  
Glenn shakes his head dismissively. When will Carol learn to leave things alone?  
  
Much like the Tootsie Pop situation, the world will probably never know, seeing as she continues to press, even after noticing Rick’s awkwardness. This was her second mistake.  
  
“Short and _STOUT_! Here is my -”  
  
“Lori? Nah, I just know her from my old school. We went to, like, fifth grade together,” Rick responds, wiping his sweaty hands on his jeans. “We were just talking about the new Star Trek movie. Besides, I’m pretty sure the doe-eyes were directed at Shane.”  
  
“Handle, here is my _SPOUT_!”  
  
“But don’t you think she’s cute? I mean, come on. I’m a girl and I think she’s cute. You have to _at least_ think she’s cute.”  
  
“Oh, uh. I guess… but, I mean… she’s not really _my type_ …”  
  
“Your _type? Do people still have types_?”  
  
“When I get all… allll… um… uh…”  
  
“I dunno. I guess. I just… I don’t…”  
  
“What’re the worrrrds, guysss… I _forgot the wordsss_.”  
  
“I think you’re searching for ‘ _when I get all steamed up, I just shout, TIP me over and pour me out_.’ At least that’s what it is according to my sisters.”  
  
“Thanks, Glenn! When I get all steamed up, I just shout -”  
  
“Surely you have your eyes out for someone, Rick.”  
  
“Well… I mean…”  
  
“ _TIP ME OVER_ -”  
  
“Come on! Just tell us, Rick! Shane’s drunk as shit, so he isn’t going to be hearing any of this, and Glenn and I will swear to secrecy! We promise not to tell! Just _please_!”  
  
“I’m actually seeing someone… sort of. I mean, not really… or… it’s complicated, alright?”  
  
Glenn wants to slap Carol just because of how excruciatingly obvious this is. Of course, maybe the fact that he’d seen Rick and Shane eating each other’s faces earlier in the night  helps with the obviousness.  
  
“ _AND POUR ME OUT_!”  
  
“ _Riiiiiiiiiiccckkkk_.”  
  
“ **AGAIN!** I’m a little teapot -”  
  
“I’d rather not.”  
  
“Short and **stout** -”  
  
“We won’t tell! We swear. On the bible. Or the torah or whatever. Or music. Yeah, I swear on my Green Day CDs and Glenn swears on his Lady Gaga!”  
  
“I do _not_ listen to Lady Gaga, Carol.”  
  
“Here is my handle, here is my **spout**! When I get all steamed up - heh… _‘steamed up.’_ Heh. That’s funny…”  
  
“ _Why won’t you tell ussss?_ ”  
  
“Hear me **SHOUT!** TIP ME OVER -”  
  
“Because, well…”  
  
“AND **POUR** -”  
  
“I’m not sure if…”  
  
“ **ME** -”  
  
“that’s something I can actually say.”  
  
“ **OUT**!”  
  
“Why not?” Carol’s whining now, desperate and pathetic. He’s sort of embarrassed for her and her needy ways.  
  
However, he might be even more embarrassed for Rick and Shane because right after Shane wraps up his big finish (complete with jazz hands) he sort of… well, says this: “It’s b’cuz he’s dating **_MEEEE_**!” and then dissolves into a fit of drunken giggles.  
  
Carol turns into Rick’s driveway, eyes wide as she swivels around to gape at them. “You two?! What the _fuck_!? Shane’s _gay and didn’t tell me_?!”  
  
Rick could have - probably should have - laughed it off, said, “What? No! We aren’t dating. Jesus, how much did he have?” but instead he hands his head, almost ashamed, and elbows Shane in the arm. Hard.  
  
“I’m a little teapot -”  
  
“Shut up, Shane.” Rick’s sour now, stomping out of the Durango and slamming the door a little too harshly. Shane looks after him with a pout and maybe tears in his eyes. He looks so hopeless, Glenn just wants to hug the fuck out of him. One glance over to Carol tells him she wants to do the same.  
  
“What did I do?”  
  
And, yeah, Glenn’s heart breaks for Shane. That was too close to a whimper to be comfortable with, and, okay. He really, truly cannot resist climbing into the back seat and wrapping the pour, crying boy into a hug. Carol turns around in her seat, offering a small smile that’s pretty fake. Drunk Shane doesn’t seam to notice, and he just half-heartedly smiles back through his tears.  
  
“You didn’t do anything, sweetheart. Rick’s mad at us, not you, alright?” Blatant lie. “I’m sure he’s fine. He isn’t angry, okay?” Blatant lie, blatant lie. “How about we go over to Glenn’s house for the night? Like a sleepover? Does that sound okay?”  
  
Shane sniffles, nodding.  
  
The ride home is basically Shane crying, Glenn mother-henning him, and Carol humming to a song on the radio. Glenn thinks he should’ve let Carol do the comforting and him drive. Shane could probably rival the Mississippi River in terms of water-in-tons with all of his tears.  
  
When they get back to Glenn’s place, it’s almost four a.m. and Shane immediately passes out on the couch. Carol drops on the floor, curling into a fetal position on the rug. When Glenn sits down beside her, his fingers fumbling for his controller, she moves her head to his lap, humming happily as Glenn boots up his game.  
  
At five thirty, when Glenn finally falls asleep, the cops are out for him in Grand Theft Auto and Carol’s humming _“I’m a Little Teapot”_ into his knee.  
  



	4. Bruises on Fading Skin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BETTER LATE THAN NEVER.  
> I'm back! After a terrible, five month struggle with writer's block, I'M BACKK! Pull out the confetti because we're having a celebration! lol NO.
> 
> Anyway, this is a sort of sad chapter with TRIGGERS and CHILD ABUSE, PHYSICAL AND VERBAL. You have been warned.  
> Happy Reading!

Daryl’s ride home is spent in some sort of euphoric trance.  
  
He’s caught up in thoughts of the Scrawny Asian Boy (Glenn, whatever, same thing), with all of his nerdiness and cuteness and everything. He can’t get the boy’s videogame-talk out of his head, can’t stop remembering how he looked in the pools of streetlights that lit the corners of the parking lot. Can’t - won’t; he refuses to - forget how his cheeks had a fresh dusting of red when Daryl asked which one of the girls there he was dating.  
  
(“None,” he’d said, a toothy grin forming around his mindless giggles. “I - uh… I’m single, and, well girls aren’t exactly my forte, if you know what I mean.” It had been Daryl’s turn to blush, looking down at the toes of his sneakers when Glenn just blurted out, “What about you, Dixon? Womanizer like yourself should have girls all over him, yeah?”  
  
Daryl snorted, derisively rolling his eyes. “What-fuckin’-ever. ‘Sides. I’m not into that shit, no ways.”  
  
“Dating? Or girls?” Glenn asked. He looked hesitant, almost guilty.  
  
Daryl didn’t answer. Glenn got it.)  
  
It was all pretty great, one of the best time’s Daryl’s had in all of September. The rest of his month has been lifting food from the market in town, working on the old Chopper that sits beside the tool shed, and dodging fists and words alike from his bastard of a father.  
  
Yeah. Tonight was pretty good.  
  
Daryl pulls into his driveway at half-past three, praying to deities that probably don’t even exist that his dad is drunk and passed out on the ratty-ass couch in their living room. That way, he’ll just be able to sneak around the creaking floorboards and creep up the stairs before the old man knows what’s happened. All he needs is luck, and, while usually luck is lacking with Daryl Dixon, tonight it might just be with him. He might just make it out of this without a new broken bone or a fresh bruise or another scar to add onto the growing abundance.  
  
Maybe. Just maybe.  
  
Sadly, luck is just out of Daryl’s reach on this particular Sunday morning, and his father is waiting for him with a beer bottle in his left hand and a cigarette burning in his right. His hands are trembling and his mouth is set in a grim line. Daryl is completely and utterly fucked.  
  
“The hell you been, boy?” his father spits, venom on his tongue. His words are sharp with malice and the pure force of them makes Daryl flinch. “Wasn’t you s’posed to be home by ‘leven?”  
  
“I was… out… with friends,” Daryl says, wincing as his father steps closer to him. The smell of his dad's cheap beer swallows both of them, making Daryl want to vomit. “It was an accident. I'm sorry.” If there’s one thing Daryl Dixon has learned in his seventeen years, it’s to end your battles early. Lying is necessary if you’d like to keep living.  
  
His father snorts, his empty beer bottle slipping out of his hand. It plummets to the floor, shattering against the hardwood. Glistening pieces of tinted glass fly to all corners of the room. The grip on his father’s cigarette loosens, but Daryl knows there isn’t a way possible to make him drop that thing. “Yeah, right. Face it, Darleena. You ain’t got no real friends. Quit pretendin’ like it, boy. Ain’t doin’ none of us no good, y’hear?”  
  
Tears sting at Daryl’s eyes. He tries to shut out the words, blink away the tears, but it’s futile. They’ll always come back to haunt him. Every insult that spews from his father’s lips, every drop of water that leaks from his eyes -- and there are a lot. Of both. “I know,” Daryl says, almost a whisper. “I’m sorry I lied. Sorry.” He stares at the cigarette instead of his father’s cold, cruel figure. Watches as he flicks ash onto the ground.  
  
“You gonna cry, boy? Well, c’mon then, Darleena. Cry about it. It’s the fuckin’ truth, and if you can’t handle it, then you ain’t no son a’mine.” His father staggers closer, pressing so close that Daryl’s on the verge of hyperventilation. It’s happened before (in a very similar situation), it can happen again.  
  
“I’m sorry, dad,” Daryl gasps, trying to suppress the panic.  
  
“Shut the fuck up. You ain’t sorry for shit.”  
  
Daryl winces at the anger radiating off the man and the stench that comes with it; the levels of these increase while Daryl’s father begins to close the relatively small gap between them, agonizingly slow. It seems to take hours for the man to be chest to chest with his son, maybe even years. His father’s eyes burn holes into his own, his venomous grin curling at the ends like a handlebar mustache. Offhandedly, Daryl wonders how closely his father is related to the devil.  
  
“Look, boy,” his father slurs, right in his face. Daryl has to stain to make sense of the incoherent growls. “You gonna live under my roof, you gonna live under my rules, too. Got it?”  
  
Muscle memory kicks in and Daryl nods, a little too vehemently. His father’s eyes graze over him as he takes another drag of the cigarette. He blows smoke out of his nose, the long gray tendrils hitting  Daryl’s eyes. The man squints at his son.  
  
The next thing Daryl knows is an all-too-familiar flash of pain engulfing his eye and the loud, echoing noise it makes when he hits the floor. He lands on a particularly large pile of glass, and can feel it tearing apart his skin as warm blood begins to stain his t-shirt. He lays there, limp, not finding a point nor will to fight back.  
  
His head spins when he tries to lift it from the ground a moment later. Before his stomach even begins to roll, there’s a boot on his back, the sole digging into his spine rather harshly. So much for no new bruises today; at this point, he’ll be satisfied to make it out without loosing his dinner to one of his father’s steel-toes.  
  
Another drag of the cigarette has Daryl’s father spitting out more malice-laced insults. “You little shit. You’re just lucky I’m stopping here, not actually killing your ass fo showin’ up late -- Jesus Christ. Shoulda got rid’a ya a while ago. All a ya.”  
  
All a ya is Dad Code for Daryl, Merle, and Mom. Even with Merle in county prison and Ma being six feet under for the past ten years, he never fails to bring all of them up somehow.   
  
“I’m sorry…” Daryl whimpers, voice tight and weak as the heel of the boot presses into his back, pinning him to the ground. “I’m sorry, dad… I know…”  
  
“Piece a’shit,” his father mutters, pushing more weight onto Daryl’s spine. He takes another drag, this one slower, more careful than the rest, like he’s contemplating something. His father swiftly bends down and puts the cigarette out behind Daryl’s ear.  
  
Daryl hisses in pain as his father walks away, probably to pass out before the hangover sets in or to find another cigarette to put out on his son’s neck. They’re equally likely, Daryl thinks.  
  
He presses his face -- the bruised side -- hard into their splintery, glass-ridden wood floorboards, hoping to disappear into them, to never be seen or hit or fucked-up again. He thinks that he can relate to Jenny or whoever from that Forrest Gump movie.  
  
 _Turn me into a bird so I can fly far away…_  
  
“Please,” Daryl whispers to the floor, the dingy walls, the dead air. “I want to leave this place. Please.”  
  
Daryl swims in and out of consciousness right in the middle of the living room floor for a good four or five hours before he can stand without gagging. When he does, he limps out onto the porch, looks deep into the sky and says, sadly, to the fluttering crows, buzzards, cardinals, “Why can’t I leave?”  
  
God nor the birds answer, to Daryl’s immense disappointment. He flips off the sky before stumbling off the porch. He gets a proper sleep in the tool shed, pressed in between the old bike and a cluttered shelf of motor oil. The ground is nasty and cold, but he has a blanket and a pillow stashed behind his toolbox for instances as such.  
  
It’s not the first time this has happened.  
  
Won’t be the last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is anyone else excited for TWD Season 4?  
> Yeah?  
> Good.  
> :D


	5. Never Mind, Rose; or Shane and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second part of the chapter name is derived from the title "Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day" by Judith Viorst. The song Never Mind, Rose is my own. Please do not take the (very few) lyrics that are in this chapter.
> 
> And, OMG, you guys. I updated! What is that, even?
> 
> I hope that it isn't too short for you guys! Happy readings!

Band practice the next day is the best kind of train wreck Glenn can imagine.

Shane is slumped over his drum set, lifeless and frail, drumsticks dangling from his fingertips. Glenn would be convinced he’s dead if Shane wasn’t so vocal about his pain, groaning and whining every few minutes. Carol has lost all of her sympathy for Shane, and is positively fuming, pacing the floor impatiently. Beth is trying relentlessly to hold everything together, though she’s no idea what’s going on. Otis is hiding behind his acoustic guitar, scared out of his mind (Carol + anger = Not good. The band knows this equation well). The groupies are sitting on the couch, dumbfounded and confused.

“Come on, guys!” Beth half-heartedly cheers, her enthusiasm slowly winding down. “We should do some warm ups, at least!” No one moves, save Otis’s shakes and tremors. “Don’t you think so, Otis? We can start with something fun!”

“Let’s start with something loud,” Carol grinds out, staring pointedly at Shane, who groans in protest.

“No. Let’s do, like… _Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star_ or something,” Shane says, words muffled by his snare drum.

“How about _I’m a Little Teapot_?” Glenn jokes. It falls short, though, when Shane lifts his head to stare blankly.

“What?”

“Never mind.”

Amy stumbles into the garage, smiling and perky as ever, holding a glass in one hand and her phone in the other. She’s wearing a homemade Zombie Central shirt, complete with sparkles and a nauseating amount of glitter. She dances to the couch, following a nonexistent beat.

“I thought this was a band practice,” Amy says, taking Jimmy’s usual spot on the couch ( _Jimmy’s too hungover to get out of bed_ , Beth had told them, giggling). “Where’s the music?”

“Shane has a headache,” Beth answers, sighing and juggling the microphone between her hands. “He can’t play without throwing up.”

“He’s being a wuss,” Carol mutters, pressing a few keys on her keyboard absentmindedly. She messes with the settings while Shane sits up properly to gawk at her. She pretends not to notice, tapping out the _Jaws_ theme song, instead.

“What the _hell_ is your problem?” he snaps.

Carol is (pretending to be) too enraptured with the reverb effect to come up with a response. Shane throws a drumstick to the floor in frustration.

The following tension pisses him off even more. Shane storms out dramatically, knocking over Otis’ favorite electric guitar on his way. Otis bristles, but doesn’t say anything until Shane is in the kitchen and out of earshot.

“That _bastard_ ,” he curses, rushing over to save the neglected instrument.

“Can you just play a song before someone ends up getting shanked?” Amy asks, scrolling through Instagram on her phone. She pauses to laugh at someone’s cat-beard before continuing. “I don’t want to be an accessory to murder, alright? I’m too pretty and delicate to be locked up.”

Beth nods, saying, “Good idea, Amy. Otis, Carol; what do you guys want to start with? It’d have to be something without percussion, I suppose.” She looks around expectantly, but no one says a word. Otis cradles his guitar, stroking the body lovingly. Carol plucks out the beginning notes of _I’m a Little Teapot_.

“Nothing?” She pauses. “Fine then,” she says, turning to Glenn and Amy. “What do you all think we should play?”

“Rose!” Amy shouts, finally looking up from her phone. Glenn rolls his eyes. “Never Mind, Rose! Play it! Now!”

(It’s the one she always picks. Glenn wonders why they even bother asking.)

Otis gently sets his electric back on its stand, before picking up his acoustic once more. Carol rolls her eyes, almost smiling (it’s the first sign of joy Glenn has seen from her since they woke up. Maybe she won’t kill every last one of them, after all). She sets her keyboard to the right settings, as Otis adjusts his capo. Beth carries the microphone out to the middle of the floor.

Taking a seat on his stool, Otis strums the first few chords of _Never Mind, Rose_ , a song Glenn had wrote for the band after his first relationship crashed and burned during freshman year. He had felt like such a stereotypical teenage girl after that, and almost threw the damned paper into his family’s fireplace. (Carol found it before he could, though, and it ended up being ZCTF’s signature song.)

The band (minus Shane) starts in on the first verse, Otis picking, Carol pressing keys, Beth singing. It isn’t really a good song, but the group keeps it around for nostalgic purposes. The lyrics are crappy, the chord progression is simple (Am, C, Em, D), and Glenn thinks most people cringe when they hear the dissonant first notes, but it had won ZCTF their eighth grade talent show, and it was their audition for Battle of the Bands last year. It may not be good, but it's important to the band. 

Glenn has heard this song thousands of times, knows it better than the back of his hand, so he excuses himself to the kitchen just as Beth begins crooning the first chorus ( _Never mind, Rose / I’ll find somebody else / I’ve been caught on you / for too long_ ).

Shane sits at the kitchen counter, counting Ibuprofen in his palm, and winces when he hears Glenn’s footsteps. He kicks back a handful of little orange pills, swallowing them dry.

“Jesus, Shane. You _trying_ to overdose?” Glenn says, leaning his hip against the counter.

“Fuck off, Glenn,” he groans.

Glenn hold his hands up in surrender. “Come on, man. I get that you’re mad after what happened last night, but, Jesus. At least try not to act like something crawled up your butt and died.”

Something flashes in Shane’s eyes, quick and angry. “What the hell even _happened_ last night? I can't even fucking _remember_ any of it!”

The only sound is Beth’s muted singing from the other room. “Wait…” Glenn says, slowly, trying to piece it all together. “You don’t remember? Like, at all?”

“No! I can't remember anything after my fourth beer! And now, Carol’s pissed, Rick won’t even _talk_ to me, everyone’s being weird, and…” Shane growls, leaning forward to thump his head against the countertop. “Just… I don’t even know what I did,” he all but whimpers. “I’d apologize, but I just don’t know what to apologize for.”

Glenn has to stop himself from smothering Shane with another hug.

He sighs, taking the seat beside Shane and laying a hand on his shoulder. “Look, man… You should probably talk to Rick about last night. It’s more between you guys than it is me and Carol.”

Shane lifts his head only to hit it twice more against the table. “I told you about me and Rick, didn’t I?” he groans dejectedly.

“Yeah.”

“I’m fucked.”

“Pretty much."

Glenn drums his fingers lazily against the marble countertop. He feels sort of like a jackass, but, hey. Glenn is nothing if not truthful.

“You get an A+ in reassurance, Glenn,” Shane grumbles sarcastically, head still down. He’s trying to discreetly flip Glenn off under the counter. It ends up being not-so-discreet.

Glenn, being the wonderful friend he is, politely ignores this.

(Shane’s totally full of shit, anyway. Glenn definitely gets a non-sarcastic C+ in reassuring, if not a B.)


End file.
